Free Nine: Vengeance of the Warrior by Shobha Nihalani Page A

place. He hurried away, taking the back streets and hastened to his office. He was worried that this time he hadn’t gotten away with being anonymous. Chris would never forget what he had seen. And the worst part, the Kalingan was coming back to hunt them down.



6
Zubin
    California
    The public health-care centre was crowded. The cries from the trauma unit were loud enough to wake up the dead. Zubin headed straight for the children’s wing and then further into the corner where the terminally ill patients were admitted. The pretty wallpaper, the wall hangings of smiling people belied the bleak desperate faces that visited this section. The kids were dying of incurable diseases. Zubin didn’t want to make it too obvious when he healed them, but it was easier to thank divine intervention for the success rather than a human’s ability to heal. Zubin was careful to make it seem as if it happened simply through faith. Often he came in with a troupe of followers of a religious priest. Sometimes it was a Buddhist monk, other times it was a Christian and still other times it was a Hindu saint. He would be one of the followers, dressed unobtrusively in jeans and a T-shirt, and sneakers. He blended in, mingled and moved as part of the group.

    A saint from India was on the way and he would join the troupe soon. While the saint prayed, Zubin would discreetly place his hand on the child’s forehead or shoulder and speak words of love and prayer. He did it a few times and the following week he would hear about the miracles of saints.
    After a few hours, Zubin exited the hospice and stood at the corner of the road. It was a late Sunday afternoon. He was about to get on the bus, when he heard weak cries for help. He followed the sound and saw a homeless man across the road. He was on the ground, partially hidden from view by an oversized dumpster. Two street kids knelt by his side. Zubin yelled at them and they ran the other way. ‘Damn!’ he whispered as he sprinted across the road and entered the side street. The homeless man was trembling under a stained and tattered blanket. Gently, Zubin touched him. ‘Hey, I’m here to help.’
    ‘Leave me alone!’ the man said.
    Zubin pulled back the blanket and was shocked by what he saw. What had the world come to? What he witnessed would cause anyone to lose hope in humanity. Zubin had seen worse, usually on a dead guy, not on one who was literally clinging to life on sheer determination. The suffering man’s bald head was pockmarked with scratches and scab wounds. His face was bleeding from open sores. There were blue–black mottled marks all over his legs. He was wearing one shoe and his other bare foot was swollen, as if he had a broken ankle. There was an overwhelming smell of decay. The man’s skeletal body seemed to be held together by his meagre, ripped clothing. He clutched something in his claw-like grip.
    ‘What have you got there, old man?’
    ‘Nuthin’,’ he said and brought his arm to his chest. He was too weak to hold it any longer, his grip relaxed and a small metal object fell out of his hand. Zubin picked it up and wiped it against his shirt. It was a medal, a commendation for military service.
    ‘Hey! Give me that,’ he said weakly and coughed violently. He spat out a gob of green in the distance.
    ‘The kids were going to get that from you, weren’t they?’ Zubin returned the medal.
    The man moved weakly, clutching his medal. He groaned miserably as he slid towards the slimy wall and leaned back. ‘What do you want? I got no money. Why don’t you just leave me alone?’ he said in a quavering voice.
    Zubin sighed. He glanced around. ‘How old are you?’
    ‘What does it matter to you?’ the old man retorted.
    ‘Just tell me.’
    ‘Fifty something.’
    He still had some years to go if he was healthy. The place was a breeding ground for insects and rodents. Zubin didn’t want to even attempt to move the man who was weeping and muttering death